


A Remedy

by Lantean_Drift



Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:07:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3162371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lantean_Drift/pseuds/Lantean_Drift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos is not there when d'Artagnan is poisoned. Porthos silently takes care of everything while Aramis takes care of d'Artagnan and, by extension, Athos. <br/><i>Poison is in everything, and no thing is without poison. The dosage makes it either a poison or a remedy.<br/>~ Paracelsus</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Remedy

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a fandom writing weekend, the challenge was to begin with a certain sentence and stay within a 1500 word limit. This is the result. Enjoy!.xx.

“How could he possibly have known that a seemingly throwaway comment would have such significant consequences,” Aramis said, stopping Athos with a hand on his shoulder. 

“Aramis, I agree with you, this is not his fault.” Athos tried to push past, needing to get through that door and back to d’Artagnan. 

“Then stop treating him like it is,” Aramis added quietly. That, more than any restraint, stilled Athos. 

“Truth is,” Aramis continued. “Any one of us would have laughed and encouraged d’Artagnan to take that bet. Not one of us could have known it would end like this. Porthos is no more to blame than you or I.”

Athos rubbed his eyes in attempt to ease the mounting pressure in his skull. He should have been there. He should have stopped d’Artagnan being so foolish. 

“Oh, I see.” 

Athos so hated that tone. There were times Aramis knew him too well. “Athos, you weren’t even there last night, how can you lay any of the blame for this on yourself?” 

“I should have been there.” Cursing himself for a fool, Athos turned away and attempted calm his fraying temper before it turned on the wrong man. This hallway was too damned small, there was nowhere that spared him from Aramis’ gaze. 

“And had you been, you would have been hiding away in your corner nursing a bottle, your sullen thoughts on nothing but your wine. Don’t pretend you would have lifted your head at some roar of laughter and a foolish wager – and for god’s sake, stop believing that if you had been there and you had lifted your stubborn head, you could have stopped this. No one could have known.” 

Silence followed Aramis’ words, it yawned hollow and vast between them and waited impatiently. Athos looked to the floor. “I’m sorry, brother,” Aramis said at last. “That was - ”

“No, please, you are right.”

“Perhaps, but one could argue less so of late – oh please, Athos, we could not have failed to notice that since d’Artagnan joined us you have remembered how to smile a little. You are more present, less lost to us – and your bottle.” 

Athos felt a vein of panic spark inside him, it was true d’Artagnan occupied most of his waking thoughts and that he constantly felt the urge to be worth the trust that d’Artagnan had instinctively placed in him but his brothers deserved more than his distraction. 

“Athos. Athos...” Aramis’ hand was gentle this time as it gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “This is a good thing, my friend. Porthos and I, we’re glad for you.” Aramis smiled. “We approve of this new lease of life,” he added, with a lascivious wink. 

“If god doesn’t strike you down, I shall,” Athos muttered and let Aramis’ laughter calm him. “I do not blame Porthos for this, the only man to hold blame is the bastard who poisoned d’Artagnan’s cup.”   
Aramis sobered and nodded. “Treville has him in custody.” 

“He does?” 

“Thanks to Porthos, yes.” 

“Good...good. I should - ” Athos gestured to the door separating them from d’Artagnan. 

“Yes, you should,” Aramis said kindly. “Porthos and I will join you as soon as we can.” 

“My thanks.” 

“None necessary, brother.” Aramis set his hat back on his head with his customary flourish and turned to leave. 

“Regardless of necessity, you have my thanks, my friend,” Athos said before he could leave. Aramis nodded and disappeared down the narrow wooden stairs in a clattering of leather and steel.

Athos scrubbed a hand roughly over his face and pushed through the door. It had been hours since Porthos had roused him from his bed, throwing a shirt at him and telling him to get to the garrison, that Aramis was treating d’Artagnan as best he could but he was in a bad way and asking for Athos. 

D’Artagnan had lost consciousness by the time he got there and the room was festering with unnatural heat and the smell of vomit. Aramis had said something about poison, about having lessened the amount in d’Artagnan’s system by repeatedly sticking his fingers down his throat, and about keeping him cool. Athos had taken the cold, wet cloth from Aramis’ hand and sat down on the bed. He had shouted at Porthos, sent the other two off to rest and then through the early hours of the morning he had set himself to a pattern of soothing the heat from d’Artagnan’s skin, and waiting. 

The sun had come up since then, the morning had given way to noon, but the room still seemed dank and dim to Athos as he made his way to the window, pushing it open and letting both the daylight and a cool breeze sweep through the room.

“Bright.” Nothing more than a word caught on a soft moan. 

“Do you want me to close it?” Athos asked, smiling despite himself. 

“No. S’nice.” 

“I’m glad to see you’re awake,” Athos said, leaving the window and sitting carefully on the bed by d’Artagnan’s chest. 

D’Artagnan tried to open his eyes but managed little more than to blink and screw them closed again. “Hurts.” 

“Where?” Athos reached out and placed a hand lightly over d’Artagnan’s eyes, rubbing his temple with a brush of his thumb. 

D’Artagnan’s weak laugh was not reassuring. “Everywhere. M’so hot.” 

Athos reached for the bucket, wringing the cold water from the cloth, he folded it carefully and wiped it across d’Artagnan’s face and down his neck. “Aramis says we must do our best to keep you cool.” 

“Tha’s why m’naked?” 

“And why the window is open and why we have buckets of the coldest water Porthos could find.” Athos soaked the cloth again and lifted it, dripping cool droplets across d’Artagnan’s chest. 

“Drink?” d’Artagnan asked. 

“There’s water.” Athos smiled and wrapped his hands over d’Artagnan’s shoulders, helping him to sit up. He felt a flair of anger and concern war in his chest as his stubbornly independent Gascon not only accepted his help but leaned into him, needing to be steadied. 

“Sorry.” D’Artagnan gave an embarrassed cough and grabbed hold of Athos’ arms to try and stay upright. 

“It’s fine.” Athos kept one hand on d’Artagnan as he reached for the cup Aramis had carefully filled left ready for him. “Here. Drink.” He held the cup and d’Artagnan wrapped his shaking hands around Athos’ steady grip and lifted the cup to his mouth. 

“Thank you.” 

Athos replaced the cup, and with an impulse he couldn’t bring himself to deny he wrapped his hand around the back of d’Artagnan’s head and guided him in, shifting them until d’Artagnan’s face was pressed against his neck and Athos could wrap his arms around his shoulders and hold him close. 

“Athos,” d’Artagnan murmured. 

“It’s fine. You’re going to be fine.” 

“Stay?” 

Athos felt d’Artagnan’s finger twisting tentatively in his shirt, tangling them together as best he could. “Of course.”


End file.
